Chapter 5: Squire

“Sparring?” Rian asked, pausing to take a bite of his fried egg. “What, like knights?”

Morning had broken, and the women were sitting around the dining table, eating another hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon that he had prepared for them. He occupied his usual place at the edge of the firepit, balancing his dish in his lap, but he wasn’t offended. He was a slave, after all, and he couldn’t expect to be given a seat.

“We must keep skills sharp,” Sharog explained, breaking a yellow yolk and dabbing it with a piece of fried bread soaked in butter. She paused to eat, relishing the taste for a moment before continuing. “We cannot let ourselves grow weak between raids.”

“Those who do not practice war and train body to fight are doomed to dishonor,” Urami confirmed with an enthusiastic nod. It was probably the first thing anyone had said in the last few days that she wholeheartedly agreed with. Enthusiasm radiated from her – he could tell how important this was in her eyes. She clenched a fist and flexed a tan bicep the size of his head, the muscle bulging, threatening to snap the leather bands that she wore above it. “We must stay strong and sharp. Krak’tul commands us to hone bodies like blade.”

“Then I shall have to keep you fed with plenty of meat,” Rian replied. “You’ll need it.”

It seemed that their Orcish strength was not solely a product of their nature, then. They must train and spar regularly, taking pains to hone their skills and maintain their impressive physiques. It might even be a part of their religion, like going to church to pray or observing fasts.

“It will be good opportunity for you to learn,” Sharog added with a gesture to Rian. “We will have you squire. You will clean armor and sharpen weapons.”

“First, we must see off caravan,” Ghorza interjected over a mouthful of bacon. Having good table manners was not commanded by Krak’tul, evidently. “Traders leave for Southern lands today.”

“Oh yes, you were helping them load their carts yesterday,” Rian said with a nod. “Is it a terribly dangerous journey?”

“There will be no danger,” Sharog replied.

“I suppose you need not fear wolves or brigands,” Rian conceded. “Woe betide a thief who tries to steal from an Orcish caravan.”

“If it were dangerous, I would be going,” Urami insisted as she pushed her chest out proudly.

“Just so,” Rian replied, his sarcasm once more lost on her.

When they were done eating, they left the hut, leaving Rian behind to clean up after them. He cleared the table and scrubbed the boards, then loitered by the door, opening it to watch the caravan leave. The procession of six wooden carts had been lashed to horses, piled high with chests, barrels, and sacks that were secured with ropes and netting. A dozen Orcs followed along, leading the animals out through the main gate and off in the direction of the bridge, the sound of hooves and creaking cartwheels soon fading away. The Orcs who had remained behind returned to their business, and he spotted his three hosts returning up the dirt path. He moved out of their way, closing the door behind them when they entered.

“Now that courtyard is clear, we spar,” Urami insisted. She seemed restless, pacing and rolling her broad shoulders, cracking her neck.

“Don’t you want to let your breakfast settle first?” Rian joked. “You wouldn’t want to get a bellyache.”

She gave him a murderous look that prompted him to shut up. He watched in silence as she strode over to the weapon rack and selected a spear, weighing it in her hands, testing its balance.

“Do you spar with real weapons?” Rian asked warily. “And in armor, too?”

“There is not one kind of sparring,” Urami chided. “Dirt tender not know this. Is not big surprise.”

“I’m afraid that my martial capabilities are rather lacking.”

“We grapple,” Sharog explained. “This trains strength and endurance. Sometimes we train only with weapon to sharpen skills. Today, we train in armor. We must train as we fight. War is not pretend.”

“So Krak’tul commands,” Urami confirmed. “Train as you make war.”

“I suppose I’ll be squiring, then,” Rian sighed. “Truth be told, I’m not sure if I can even lift some of those armor plates you were wearing during our first meeting. They looked heavy.”

“I have idea,” Ghorza said, her playful tone filling him with concern. She placed a hand on his shoulder, steering him in Urami’s direction. “Turnip boy should squire for Urami first.”

“What?” Rian protested.

“Why?” Urami asked with a frown.

“Think,” Ghorza said, tapping her head with a finger. “You spend less time putting on armor, more time sparring. Train turnip boy like shiny men train squires. You take what makes them strong. Does Krak’tul not command this?”

“Turn weapons of foes against them,” she muttered, eyeing Rian. “Very well. But you will be silent, and you will do as I say,” she added sternly. “Do not test my patience.”

“You know, the worst thing about being a slave is not being able to argue,” he grumbled as Ghorza gave him an encouraging push in Urami’s direction. He walked over to join her, and she led him behind her wooden screen, Rian finding himself in what served as her bedroom. It wasn’t too different from those of Sharog or Ghorza, with a bed, weapon racks, and shelves for her belongings. There were noticeably more skulls, however...

None seemed to have been taken from humans or other Orcs, thankfully. Most seemed to be from animals like deer and wolves, perhaps hunting trophies. They were lashed to racks on the wall with rope that was fastened through their empty eye sockets, many of them painted with colorful runes or symbols, the purpose of which he could not discern. He had seen similar fetishes throughout the camp, notably on the main gate.

Urami was already dressing, planting a boot on her bed and lashing a leather belt around her thigh, yanking it tightly enough to make Rian grimace. Maybe that was why her skin was tan instead of green – no circulation. She repeated the process with the other leg, the belt cutting an indent into the meat of her thigh, the rest of her clothes creaking as she moved. Like Ghorza, she wore a leather sling that compressed her chest, along with a sleeveless fur jacket over the top of it. Below, she wore a pair of leather shorts. They were fashioned in a similar style to the breeches worn by Sharog, with the same crude stitching through which bare skin was visible, but they ended just above her thighs.

“You will armor me,” she said, turning to him and gesturing to a rack mounted to the nearest wall panel. It was laden with clothes, the large plates of hammered iron hanging from leather straps. He moved closer and selected a segmented gauntlet and bracer, finding it surprisingly heavy, carrying it over to her. She extended her arm and let him attach it, Rian pulling the straps taut and buckling them. When he stepped away, she flexed her fingers, inspecting his work. There were no complaints, so he continued.

First the other gauntlet, then the shoulder pads, which were almost too heavy for him to carry. She grew impatient as he fumbled with one of the belts, snatching it from him and demonstrating how they connected. With both shoulder pads attached, he moved to her thigh plates, his face warming as he had to kneel in front of her to fasten them.

She was a beast of a woman, with the same powerful build as Sharog, albeit lacking much of the same softness. If her goal was to hone her body like a weapon, then she had done so, sharpening every dull edge until what remained was as keen as the point of a blade. Her presence alone was overwhelming. He felt like he was shoeing a horse that might lash out and kick his head off at any moment.

Urami’s thighs were almost as girthy as his torso, and he practically had to hug them to fasten the belts, watching abdominal muscles that could have been chiseled from granite tense when she felt his breath on her skin. He could smell the soap on her from the night before, and he could even see the remnants of the faded blue pigment on her belly from the original raid so many days prior.

The greaves came next, and when they were securely fastened, he moved to pull her massive chest piece down from the rack.

“No,” she said, stopping him. “War paint first.”

“You wear war paint during sparring?” he asked. “Is that necessary?”

“We train as we fight,” she growled.

“If you say so,” he conceded. He’d already painted Ghorza’s face, so he recognized the little clay vessel that contained the pigment, lifting it from a nearby shelf. As he approached Urami again, she dropped to a knee, her weight enough to shake the floorboards. Leather creaked and metal chimed, the suddenness of the motion making Rian recoil.

She had brought her face into his reach, and he got the closest look at her features yet. Like her counterparts, she had a strong jaw and defined cheekbones, her long ears tapering to points like the blade of a knife. Through the cartilage of her nose was a sharp bone piercing, and her ears were similarly adorned. There was nothing primitive about the jewelry – the bone elements had been carved into shape and whittled down, decorated in places with fine carvings not dissimilar from Ghorza’s tusks. There were metal elements holding them in place, and it was all very purposeful in spite of its outward suggestion of savagery.

Upon her brow and cheeks were those pinprick scars, creating an even, geometric pattern of small bumps. It almost looked like she had little beads beneath her tan skin. Two tusks emerged from a pair of full lips, her amber eyes framed by long, thick lashes that batted when she blinked back at him. She was captivating in a kind of dangerous way, like a venomous snake with beautiful scales, her brow furrowing as he hesitated.

“Hurry up,” she complained, prompting him to continue.

He dipped two fingers into the pigment, coating them with the vibrant blue paste. It must linger for a long time, because his digits were still subtly stained with Ghorza’s red pigment. The faded lines on Urami’s face still remained, so he had an example to follow, and he brought a hesitant hand to her forehead. She hadn’t let him touch her during her baths, so he felt like he was crossing some kind of threshold. Were it not for his performance with the wolf, he wondered whether she would allow even this level of contact.

Starting near her hairline, he dragged his fingers down her face, following the faded pigment like a map. She closed her eyes as he passed them, moving down her cheek and all the way to her chin. The scars were firm, almost like seeds, but her skin was otherwise remarkably soft and clear. He should not be so surprised, as the Orcs were fastidious in their grooming habits.

He dipped his fingers into the jar again and repeated the process, Urami opening her eyes when she felt him finish to find him peering back at her. She averted her gaze quickly, as did he, the Orc rising to her full height. Turning to her dresser, she examined his work in the mirror, moving her head left and right.

“Acceptable,” she said.

Rian let out the breath he was holding.

“Now here,” she said, gesturing to her back. Of course. Unlike Sharog and Ghorza, Urami had war paint all over her body. She walked over to her bed and sat down facing away from him, the wooden frame creaking under the weight of the armored Orc. Without her cuirass, she wore only her leather sling, reaching back to unbuckle it. Now that the garment was out of his way, Rian could see the unbroken trails of faded blue that ran from her shoulders to her belt. One ran down her spine, and it was flanked by two more. There were more tiny scars across her shoulders, reaching a short distance down her back to form a kind of shallow triangle shape.

Rian dipped his fingers into the pigment, starting with the leftmost line, drawing a careful trail that began at her heavily muscled shoulder. He should be used to it by now. The sight of those sculpted muscles shifting beneath her skin at his touch should be no surprise to him, and nor should the way that her soft skin contrasted with the firm tissue beneath, but it was something that never stopped being captivating. From a distance, one would think that their bodies were as hard as stone, and their skin would have the texture of sun-baked leather, but that just wasn’t the case.

These lines were a lot longer, and he had to scoop out some more pigment, the small of her back growing more defined as she flexed at his touch. Next came her spine, the Orc arching it involuntarily as his digits followed its flawless curve, a shiver passing through her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Am I tickling you?”

“I am not tickled,” she grumbled. “Your touch is too light. Press harder.”

He slid his fingers down to the base of her spine, stopping just above her belt, allowing himself a moment to admire her now that she couldn’t see him.

“Did it hurt?” he asked, moving up to her right shoulder and refreshing his pigment. “These scars?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“What are they for, if you don’t mind my asking? Do they ... have some meaning?”

“When we come of age, shamans mark our bodies with thorn of rakka plant,” she began. “Rakka is sacred to my people. Its poison brings pain, separates those who are not ready. Ritual of scarring honors Krak’tul. We prove that we are prepared to face pain without fear. Scars brand us as warriors.”

“You prick yourselves with a poisonous thorn?” Rian asked with a grimace. “I noticed that the others don’t have them.”

“There are many Orcish tribes South of valley,” she explained. “Many different customs. Raiding parties and colonies often formed from many different peoples. Tribes send best warriors and settlers.”

“Is that how you met Sharog and Ghorza?” he continued as he painted. “You were all assigned to some kind of mission together?”

“We raid together for many years,” she explained. “Chieftains honor us. Choose us to represent tribes.”

“It’s not so different from the way we do things, I suppose,” he said. “In times of war, the King calls upon the knights of the realm to serve him in battle, and they form a host. I’d suppose that the best knights would be sent on the most important missions – not that I know much about such things.”

The final line was soon painted, and she reached back to buckle her sling again, rising to her feet. Rian wondered if they were done, but as she turned to face him, he was reminded of the faint lines on her belly. She walked around her bed and stood before him, her yellow eyes peering down from what seemed like a great height. He might only be playing the part of the subservient captive, but Urami’s presence was so dominating that he felt a natural desire to lower his gaze.